Dying for a Donut (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 5)

by Cindy Sample

“Can I help you with something?” Dorie asked me.

  “Would you happen to know where Liz Daley’s cosmetic supplies are stored? Your husband offered to give her the Weather Vainery vendor space. Liz left her products with Axel the Friday before he was…” I paused, figuring she would catch my drift.

  “I can help you find that stuff,” a gruff voice said from behind me. I turned around to find Brent.

  “What time is your meeting?” he asked Walter who looked at his watch and replied, “At three o’clock. We’re waiting for Paul and Brooke.”

  Dorie sighed. “So many difficult decisions to make.”

  “Listen, I got to finish something first,” Brent said to me. “Meet me in front of the warehouse in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Thanks. I need to purchase these items anyway,” I said.

  Dorie waved goodbye and walked away with Walter at her side. Brent took off in the opposite direction, and I ambled over to the registers, hoping I wouldn’t drop anything and maim any customers on the way. While I waited in line behind several people equally encumbered with groceries, I mulled over a meeting that would include the owners and manager of Apple Tree Farm, the owner of the vineyard next door, who’d been trying to purchase the property for years, and the farm’s accountant.

  Walter must have finally talked Dorie into selling. I wondered how Eric felt about losing the family farm––his heritage. But if the Thorson family’s financial condition was as dire as their CPA had indicated, it was probably for the best.

  I grabbed my bagged items and hoofed it to my car. A tiny Miata squeezed into a compact spot a few spaces down. Brooke stepped out of the dust-spotted convertible and reached into the trunk. She pulled out a briefcase, slammed the lid shut and walked in my direction.

  “Hi, Laurel,” she said. “Are you here for the meeting?”

  “Nope, just picking up a few items. Looks like Walter Eastwood may be acquiring this property from the Thorson family.”

  “I really can’t say,” she demurred. “That decision will be made by Dorie and Paul. I’m just the bookkeeper.”

  “They’re lucky to have you.”

  “I hope they agree. My goal is to help my clients to the best of my ability, but I’m not a magician.”

  “Maybe Walter can work some magic.”

  “Axel is probably rolling in his urn. Such a shame that young man killed him. And to think he’d recently learned Axel was his father. What a waste of two men’s lives.”

  “I’m still positive they’ve arrested the wrong person.”

  “Hank said you were stub––er, I mean tenacious,” she said. “Listen, if I think of anything worthwhile I’ll let you know. Will you be here much longer?”

  “Just a few more minutes. I’m supposed to meet Brent at the warehouse.” I stuck my hand in my purse, waded through some receipts and coupons and eventually found one of my business cards. “This has my work phone and my email address. I know Nina will appreciate anything you can find out.”

  Brooke took the card and walked off, the briefcase swinging in her hand. At the rate I was asking people for help, Gran would have to name her new concern, A DOZEN GALS DETECTIVE AGENCY.

  I decided there was enough time to stop and say hi to Nina before I met with Brent. I hadn’t talked to her since the detectives re-arrested her grandson.

  I asked the girl at the bakery counter if Nina was available. She appeared a few minutes later, indicating I should come around back.

  Lately I’d spent more time in the Apple Tree Farm kitchen than my own. I entered through the door leading into the kitchen. The smell of fried apple fritters and donuts permeated the air. I went to give Nina a hug, but she held back, the front of her apron as well as her hands dusted with flour.

  Her eyes searched my face. “Do you have any news?”

  “Nothing specific to report. Just a few unproven possibilities.”

  Nina slumped against the long counter. “This is a never-ending nightmare. Tony’s defense attorney said the additional evidence cemented the case as far as the judge was concerned. ”

  “Do you know what they found?” I asked.

  “Tony’s fingerprints were on that fifty-pound bag of sugar that killed Axel, although that doesn’t really mean anything since he handled supplies. A witness says he saw Tony’s car leaving the farm close to the time Axel was killed. The authorities claim that sighting, plus the Friday arrival of the positive DNA results, and Tony’s argument with Axel put the last nail in my poor grandson’s coffin.”

  “Oh, dear. How high is his bail?”

  “No bail. My baby is locked up with all of those lowlife criminals. I don’t think I can bear it.”

  I went and hugged her, flour and all. “I’m so sorry, Nina, but Gran and I are on the case. By the way, did Dorie tell you she’s selling the farm to Walter?”

  Nina reared back. “What? She wouldn’t. Carolyn Thorson will be beside herself. The Thorson family has owned this farm since their ancestors settled here after the Civil War ended.”

  “Apparently Walter’s been trying to buy the property for years, but Axel kept refusing.”

  “So once Axel was out of the picture, the picture changed all of a sudden?” she asked me. “Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I left the bakery rarin’ to go find me a killer. Since I was only armed with a bagful of apple fritters, it was unlikely I’d nab anyone other than a bear with a sweet tooth.

  I glanced at my watch. More than fifteen minutes had passed since Brent and I last spoke so I’d better move along.

  As I walked toward the warehouse, I noticed Paul Thorson standing next to a short, stocky, silver-haired man dressed in a well-tailored suit. Not exactly caramel-apple-eating attire. The man carried a stylish briefcase in his right hand. Another accountant?

  Why wonder when I could mosey up to the two of them and find out.

  “Hi, Paul,” I said, nodding at the other man.

  “Nice to see you, um…” Paul seemed at a loss for my name. I couldn’t decide whether to be insulted that he didn’t remember our fifty-minute life coaching session less than twenty-four hours earlier, or pleased that I was so unremarkable in appearance I could blend in anywhere.

  “Laurel McKay,” I reminded him. “We had a session yesterday.”

  “Of course. I apologize. I have a lot on my mind right now.”

  “I ran into Dorie and Walter earlier. Looks like things are finally going your way.” I turned to the stranger and put out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  He shook my hand. His palm felt clammier than the fish chowder I’d eaten yesterday, and it took all my self-control not to wipe my hand on my slacks. He chose not to introduce himself, so I decided to help him out.

  “Are you Paul’s CPA?”

  “No, he’s Axel’s banker,” Paul answered for him.

  The stranger smoothed his silver pompadour. “I prefer to think of myself as a financial strategist.”

  And I prefer to think of myself as skinny. The stranger gave off a peculiar vibe, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe I just wasn’t used to Armani-clad lenders.

  “I’m looking forward to our next session,” I said to Paul.

  “Yeah, right,” he replied, although his gaze was fixed elsewhere. “Sorry, yes, I’m sure we can resolve some of your personal issues.”

  I sighed. “Hopefully, my boyfriend will be back soon and that will eliminate one of my primary issues.”

  “It must be difficult being in a relationship with a cop.” Paul placed a solicitous palm on my forearm. The financial strategist stared at me as if he was memorizing my face but said nothing.

  The guy was creeping me out.

  “I need to get going,” I said. “I’m meeting Brent at the warehouse.”

  Paul nodded and the two men walked away, their voices low and undecipherable although the “financial strategist” turned back once to stare at me.

  Yuck. Tha
t guy was creepy with a capital C. I dug into my apple fritter stash for comfort and smiled in delight. Who needed a life coach when a pastry could provide so much more satisfaction?

  I reached the warehouse and found both sliding wooden doors wide open. I stood out front waiting for Brent, face raised to the sky, hoping the September sun would burnish my pale cheeks. After a few minutes of quiet meditation, I decided he must be waiting inside somewhere. The interior of the building felt chilly after the pleasant outdoor temperature. They probably needed to keep it cool to ensure their supplies stayed fresh.

  I called out Brent’s name but heard nothing in response. The warehouse was dimly lit by sunlight pouring in from only one window near the back of the expansive building. I tried a couple of wall switches near the doors, but they provided minimal lighting. I shivered as I remembered my last visit inside the warehouse. I hoped Brent would appear soon. I didn’t want to spend any more time inside than necessary.

  While I waited, I decided to cruise up and down the aisles. Liz’s products bore a distinctive blue and silver logo, easy enough to spot, unless the boxes were stored way up on the top shelves. I gazed with dismay at the metal shelving, which rose ten feet or more. How the heck did they find anything around here? On the next aisle over, I noticed a very tall ladder with wheels at the bottom. That must come in handy for sliding from one spot to the other.

  I chose to search the lower shelves on each aisle first. With luck, I would find her items within a few minutes.

  Today was not my lucky day. I saw boxes and bags filled with a variety of staples for the bakery––sugar, flour, salt, and spices. Plus packaging materials. Plastic jugs, paper plates and utensils. Numerous retail supplies they must store for their vendors, but none of the pricey cosmetic variety.

  It would be easier to look for a needle in the Trump Tower than to find Liz’s supplies in this warehouse.

  Twenty minutes elapsed and Brent still hadn’t appeared. Walter and Dorie must have asked him to attend their meeting. I gritted my teeth and approached the mobile ladder with uncertainty. Between my fear of heights and my inherent klutziness, I wasn’t keen on ascending a wheeled piece of equipment. But I hated to be a wuss, and I hated even more to fail my friend, so I tried to convince myself it might be fun.

  Like a sweet ride at Disneyland––the ones for ages six and under.

  I tentatively lifted my right sandal onto the first rung. It felt secure so I climbed one level higher. So far, so good. I could now view boxes on the second shelf from the top and glimpse the handwriting on some of the cartons on the top tier. I scanned items to the left and to the right of me. No bold blue font with the silver Beautiful Image logo plastered across the face of any boxes.

  I climbed down the ladder. Once back on the ground, I slid the contraption over to the middle set of shelving. By now, I felt comfortable using the equipment so I clambered up the rungs with alacrity.

  Aha! At last, I’d found Liz’s supplies. I positioned myself directly beneath them and reached up. The sound of a motor caught my attention. I glanced toward the open doors to see if someone had driven up to the warehouse. Maybe I could enlist their help in retrieving her stuff.

  No vehicles outside. Yet the noise continued to grow louder and louder. Where on earth was it coming from? I tried to peek through the boxes on the shelf facing me, but I couldn’t see anything.

  I lowered my left shoe onto the next rung of the ladder. My right sandal dangled from my foot as I reached for the next tread down. The shelving began to shake violently. My damp palms gripped the ladder as I struggled to maintain my precarious balance.

  Wham! The ladder bounced away from the shelves before it slammed back into them. My forehead smacked against the metal rung, and for a few seconds I was afraid I would black out. An earthquake must have occurred somewhere in the Sierras. I needed to get off this contraption at once.

  I looked down, prepared to leap to my safety, when another tremor occurred. Bags of sugar and flour crashed down below, their contents splayed onto the floor. A box nearly grazed my right ear. I held on tight, but it wasn’t enough. The metal shelves screamed as they tipped, propelling me backward onto the hard cement floor.

  The lights went out. Then it was silent.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I dreamt of apple pie, sugar and spice, and everything nice. In my dream, I was eating a piece of pie. No, that wasn’t right. I was stuffed into the pie. Mashed in with all the other ingredients. Someone pushed me into the crust and beat me with a rolling pin. Over and over and over.

  I tried to protect my face with my arms, but something was restraining them. “Help me,” I screamed.

  An angelic voice whispered in my ear. “Laurel, everything is okay now.”

  I opened my eyes then shrank back from the bright light. An alien covered in white hovered over me.

  I blinked and my contact lens settled on my corneas where they belonged. Not an alien––a doctor. And my mother and grandmother seated next to me.

  “Mom?” I squeaked, feeling like a kid who’d just scraped her knees and yearned for her mother’s sympathy. Based on the pain throbbing in my head, there was more damage than an injured knee.

  “How do you feel?” asked the doctor whose youthful face bore a strong resemblance to Doogie Hauser’s.

  “Like I was run over by a train.” I paused for a few seconds trying to recollect. “What happened?”

  “We don’t know,” said Mother. “Rose Margolis, one of the Apple Tree Farm bakers, found you unconscious in the warehouse. The bakery had run out of sugar, and Rose couldn’t find Nina anywhere, so she went to the warehouse to get some supplies. She discovered you lying on the ground, covered with flour and spices.”

  “We almost lost you,” sniffed Gran. “I guess there was a real heavy carton lying just a few inches from your cute little head.”

  I shivered, which made my cute little head hurt even more. “Based on the way my head feels, something collided with it.”

  “You have a large contusion on the back of your head and a smaller bruise on your forehead. And a concussion. Two of your ribs are cracked but not broken,” the doctor informed me. “I’d say you were very lucky.”

  “Do you remember what happened?” Mother asked.

  I started to shake my head but thought better of it. Now why had I gone into the warehouse?

  “It’s all kind of fuzzy right now,” I said. “I think I was supposed to meet someone there.”

  “Axel’s killer?” Gran asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. You said the shelving landed on me. How did that happen?”

  “We were hoping you could answer that question,” Mother replied, taking one of my hands in hers. “I called both Bradford and Tom to tell them about your accident, but both calls went straight to voicemail.”

  Tom. My heart rate sped up, which was apparent to everyone by the sudden spike on my heart monitor.

  “They probably can’t access their phones right now since they’re undercov…” My voice trailed off when I saw the doctor’s puzzled expression. “You know on the job.”

  “We need to report this to someone,” Mother insisted. “Those shelves didn’t fall down by themselves.”

  I relaxed against the pillows. Shoot. That hurt, too. The next time I entered the Apple Tree Farm warehouse I would don a helmet first.

  Liz and her husband, Brian, burst through the door.

  “Are you okay?” She bustled over to my bedside. Her brow puckered as she examined me. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but you look like bloody hell.”

  Liz reached into her capacious Marc Jacobs purse and pulled out a small tube. She quickly uncapped it and started smoothing the lotion on my face.

  I pushed her away. “Stop it. I don’t need bronzing right now. Besides, it’s all your fault I was in the warehouse to begin with.”

  “My fault?” She placed a manicured hand on her chest, a look of dismay shooting across her face.
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br />   “Yes. I just remembered that Brent and I arranged to meet so he could give me your products. I waited and waited for him to show up. It was growing late, so I finally decided to climb on their rolling ladder and look for your supplies myself.”

  “Did you pull the shelves down, dear?” asked Mother.

  I frowned at her. “No, it wasn’t my klutz factor at work. Right before everything crashed down, I heard the low sound of an engine on the other side of the shelves. And that’s when everything rained down on me.”

  “See. What did I tell ya,” Gran said. “The killer tried to off Laurel.”

  “I think I’ll leave you alone for now,” the doctor said, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern. “It looks like you have some things to work out. I’m keeping you in the hospital overnight though.” He made some notes on a clipboard then walked out of the room mumbling to himself.

  “Do you think Brent was responsible for your accident?” Liz asked.

  I reflected back on my visit to the farm. “Several people could have done it. Dorie, Walter Eastwood, Brent. Even Paul Thorson.”

  Brian interrupted me. “If you’re discussing the Thorson murder, then I need to recuse myself from this discussion. That case file was handed over to me this morning.”

  “Recuse away, dear,” Liz said. “But we need to get the police involved. This does not sound like an accident to me. Someone intentionally tried to hurt Laurel. What are you going to do about it since Detective Reynolds is on duty elsewhere?”

  “I’ll contact the Sheriff and make sure the warehouse is treated as a crime scene,” he said. “Unfortunately, several hours have passed so any useful evidence may have been removed by now.”

  “Did Rose notice anyone else in the warehouse?” I asked.

  Mother shrugged. “All they told me was that she found you and immediately rushed back to the bakery to call 911. Nina had returned by then so she contacted Gran who then called me. We rushed to the hospital as soon as we found out.”

  “I suppose if there was any evidence, it was destroyed by the culprit,” I said. “Does this mean I’m making the killer nervous?”